


A Pause In The Refrain

by borrowedphrases



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Keith Week 2016, Pre-Canon, minor animal death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 15:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8167595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borrowedphrases/pseuds/borrowedphrases
Summary: It's not really living, just surviving.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For [keith-week](http://keith-week.tumblr.com/) Day 4: Isolation
> 
> A little late but I've been on the road all day heading to Anime Weekend Atlanta (artist alley table #925!, come say hi!). At least I managed to finish this.

It's quiet in the desert.

Days spread out across sand and bake rock, old riverbeds lay dry and broken like worn leather, like the skin on Keith's palms beneath his gloves when he was first learning how to ride a hoverbike; blisters turned to callouses that cracked and peeled until it hurt to even make a fist. The sun bears down on him until sweat runs in rivulets down his back, soaking through his shirt even when he's inside, the only moisture to fall for months at a time.

Nights are just as harsh, cold and hollow and echoing with the yipping howls of coyotes and the shrill screams of mountain lions. The winds whip through so hard they bleed in through the paneling of the cabin, and no amount of blankets heaped up on the bed with him seem to keep out their chill.

Keith's hair is getting too long for the days, yet still not long enough for the nights. He thinks about cutting it something, just hacking at it with his knife. Wouldn't be as nice as when he'd regularly have his undercut freshly trimmed and the top nicely thinned, but it might end up more or less one length, might keep his bangs from falling into his face or the back sticking to his neck from perspiration.

He runs a hand through his bangs, trying to slick them off his forehead, maybe wipe some of the sweat away while he's at it. His gloves are soaked, sticking to his palms in ways that used to make his skin crawl when he first fled here. Now he's almost used to it, ignoring the cling and squish as he checks the last of his traps. Sunset is coming up in an hour or so, and he needs to be home again before that, hopefully with dinner in hand. The last thing he wants to do tonight is crack open another can of beans from the shed.

A flicker of a smile passes over his face as he uncovers the last trap and finds a fat jackrabbit caught in the snare. His stomach gives a rumble of gratitude for his luck as he unsheathes his knife and makes the animal's death a quick one. He barely even blinks now at the task, knowing his blade is sharp, and the death a quick one. When he first caught a critter in one of his traps he'd spent almost a solid hour gathering his resolve, his hands trembling and the blood rushing out of his face. He'd closed his eyes that time, and the death had not been so quick.

With the rabbit field dressed and his blade as clean as he can get it out here, Keith rises from his crouch, passing the back of one forearm across his brow and breathing in a slow breath. He takes a small sip from his canteen, just enough to wet his chapped lips and sooth his parched throat, then he sets off back in the direction of home.

 

The sun dances a lover's blush along the horizon, rippling from the heat its still casting over the dry riverbed. Keith watches from the chair on his porch, a plate balanced on his lap. This and dawn are the only times of day where the air is pleasant enough to linger outside; he takes his breakfasts and dinners here, even when all he has is a stale ration bar or a heated can of beans. There's something about these liminal moments that calms him, soothes the racing of his thoughts and the ache in his chest. Day becoming night and night becoming day, neither in full swing. States existing in the in betweens. 

Keith picks up the last thigh bone from his plate, holding it between his fingers and thumbs and nibbling off the lingering bits of meat still clinging to it. He'll make a soup from the bones and the loin later; it won't be much now that he's run out of carrots or and potatoes, but it'll still be better than fully depleting his canned food stores. There's good marrow in those bones still, lots of vitamins, lots of flavor.

He's lost weight since coming here, from limited food, backbreaking work keeping the cabin in repair, and wandering the desert, foraging and hunting and gathering water. His clothes hang a bit more loosely on his frame, and he can see the skin of his hands pull a bit more tightly when his fingers flex.

A soft rustling come from a scraggly bush beside his porch, Keith's hand flying to his scabbard, his posture going tense and rigid, ears alert. It's not likely that there's another person this far out, but the animals in the desert could be just as dangerous as a burglar in town, and the cool of night brought the fiercest ones out in force.

There's a snuffling sound, and then a tawny coyote circles around to the front of the porch, stopping at the base of the steps. It's small, maybe only a year old at most, its belly thin and fur a bit mangy. Even though its fur Keith can see the outlines of its ribs, and there's a bare patch over the top of its muzzle, a pink line of scar tissue clearly visible. It gazes at Keith for a moment, gold eyes unblinking, then sniffs inquisitively at the air.

"You're probably pretty hungry, huh?" Keith's voice is soft, raspy from disuse. He looks down at the bones on his plate, mostly picked clean of meat, but there's still a little bit here and there, and connective tissue, and of course the marrow inside. 

The coyote makes a soft sound, a whimpery little yip, and Keith sighs. "Alright, you win."

He picks up one of the larger bones from his plate, rising from his chair and then tossing it off into the distance, far as he can manage. The coyote patters off after it, snapping its jaw around it and then taking off at a gentle trot.

Keith watches it until it passes out of sight, holding his plate in one hand, the fingers of the other tucked into his pocket. Part of him hopes the coyote doesn't decide to come back for more table scraps - he's not sure how much he'll be able to spare - but another part of him wouldn't mind so much; it might be nice to have some company.

 

The generator whirs to life, sputtering asthmatically a few times before settling into a soft hum. Keith gives it a gentle pat, still so grateful that the previous inhabitants of this cabin - whoever they were - had installed the generator, solar charged during the day, able to last all night if he needed it to. It keeps his hoverbike charged too, which allows him from to venture into town whenever he's desperate.

Keith locks the door to the shed, then circles back around to the porch. Once inside he reaches for the little chain hanging from the ceiling, fingers gliding along the beads for a moment before giving it a sharp tug. The hanging lamp flickers for a moment before the light steadies, swinging back and forth a bit from the pull on the chain. Shadows dance around the room, swirling around the bare table, the tattered couch, the little overstuffed-but-organized bookshelf. Keith switches off his headlamp, untangling it from his hair and hanging it on one of the pegs beside the door. 

With a kettle set on his modest electric stove, Keith reaches into one of the small cabinets above the counter, retrieving a little metal box and popping the round lid off. He sticks his nose close to the opening and breathes in deep, his eyes closing as the sweetly spiced aroma fills his senses. After giving the tin a few shakes, three oblong discs about the size of his fingertips tumble into his palm, cut about half a centimeter wide. He drops them into a mug waiting on the counter, the same one he had left there the night before, and turns to lean back against the counter as he waits for the kettle to sing.

The scent of licorice fill the room when the root chips begin to steep, always reminding him of the lozenges the nuns used to give him when he'd get a sore throat back at the group home. It's not that unpleasant a memory; the nuns were good to him, and he didn't mind the lozenges so much, even grew to like them after a while, and they always soothed his throat. He was lucky to find wild licorice in his foraging, the boost it granted his immune system a blessing with the ever fluctuating temperatures out here.

Keith moved to the couch, setting his mug down on the little table and then scanning the bookshelf. He's read everything on it at least twice over now, even the ones that were here before he arrived, not just the ones he brought with him, his own and the ones Shiro left him. _Leant_ him. He remembers discovering Shiro's love for antique books one night when Keith was up late in the common room, reading an old beat up copy of _The Screwtape Letters_ he'd found under his bed back at the home. Even there paper books had been replaced by datatabs, so the nuns had let him keep it. Shiro had smiled at him, left for a brief span of moments, then returned to toss a fragile little book into Keith's lap.

 _"Here's a bit of irony for you."_ He'd said, as Keith read the cover - _Fahrenheit 451_ \- eyes twinkling and a lazy lopsided smile on his face as he walked back out of the common room without another word. 

He still has that old little novel on his shelf, snuggled in between _The Screwtape Letters_ and _The Giver_. He didn't end up liking that book very much - Shiro had said that was okay, it wasn't for everyone - but it had been the first paper book Shiro loaned him. All through that book were the creases from pages Shiro had dog-eared, passages underlined in neat lines of graphite, and even the odd coffee stain here and there. Shiro believed books should be loved, and Keith was glad for it now, to have all those little reminders of his dear friend.

Keith finds the book he's looking for easily enough, _My Side of the Mountain_ , already bent and battered from three previous readings. He settles onto the couch, hunched forward over his lap. One hand's fingers hold the book open over his knees, the other reaches for his mug.

 

A violent shiver wakes Keith from his dreams, sending him rolling to the floor, book-spine clattering harsh against the wooden floor. He groans, and shivers again, his breath ghosting into wisps with each heavy exhale. The overhead lamp still casts a jaundiced glow about the cabin, the only source of light save for the stars glittering outside the lone window.

He picks himself up off the floor, trying to keep his shivers from making his teeth chatter in his head. After tucking his book back into its place on the shelf, he picks up his neglected mug, downing the remainder of chilled tea in two large gulps. He sets the mug back down on the counter, tugs the chain of the lamp, and then skitters quickly into the bedroom. 

Tugging his blankets aside - he makes the bed every day, to regulation, a habit he can't seem to break no matter how hard he tries. It gives him a sense of calm to see it made each night before he crawls into it, some sense of functionality, a reminder of the life he thought he'd live - he squirms his way into bed, shivering a few times as he waits for his body heat to gather between blankets and sheets. He draws the blankets up over his nose, curling into a ball, knees tucked up against his chest. Gradually his body stops its shaking, warmth collecting around him, and he lets out a slow breath as his muscles finally ease out some of their tension. The bed isn't very nice, old and worn and not exactly clean, but it's a bed, and it's his, and it keeps him from having to sleep on the couch or the floor.

These moments between awake and asleep as some of the worst, when he's not focussed on survival or reading, when his mind can drift and wander, rarely listening to him when he tries to stear it away from darker thoughts. The ache starts to creep into him at this hour, in the still of the desert night, the stars winking at him through his window. 

It's cold in the desert, but not as cold as space, or a dead moon at the edge of the Solar System. It's quiet, but there are still sounds. Animals and insects and the rustling of tree branches against the roof. There is life here, and a chance to live beside it, a chance to breathe and grow and survive.

Keith trembles, and not from a chill, his nose damp but not quite running. His eyes are closed tight, but he's not sleeping, not yet. He passes a hand over his face, across his eyes and down over each cheek, breathing in shakily. After holding out for a few more minutes he shifts, turning over onto his opposite side, and slides his hand inside his pillowcase.

On the side against the bed, between pillow and case, is a bunched up ball of fabric. A shirt, sleeveless and too big for Keith to wear comfortably. He'd never wear it anyway, it's not his. But he keeps it, because he can't stand the thought of throwing it away, or turning it into a rag. It's precious to him, for all that it has no practical use.

He tugs the shirt out from inside his pillow and draws in it close against his chest, one hand clutching tight to it. It's ridiculous, but it helps calm his racing thoughts, even as it makes his grief swell even larger inside his chest. When he holds the shirt he doesn't get as lost in what ifs and dark intrusive thoughts, he just knows what is, and what isn't, what used to be, and what is now, and he lets his sorrow wash over him like rain.

Keith tucks his nose into his shirt as his slow and steady tears lull him to sleep.

It's quiet in the desert, and there's no one to hear him mourn.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://borrowedphrases.tumblr.com/) | [Twitter](https://twitter.com/borrowedphrases)


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